It's a Crime Scene!
by Ttime42
Summary: John tries to coax Sherlock out of a bad mood at a crime scene. PG for mild gore in the form of decapitation. Genfic. Warning: Contains awful puns.


Sherlock Holmes was angry. He was in one of his black moods. His sulks. He came out of his room only to get tea and the occasional biscuit before disappearing down the hall and back behind his shut door. John didn't know what the problem was, and honestly, he reasoned, he probably wouldn't find out. As Mrs. Hudson put it, "who knows what goes on in that funny old head?" Sherlock had spoken to Mycroft earlier, and that usually put him in a snarkier than usual mood, but it didn't necessarily mean anything today.

John was sitting on the sofa, reading, when his phone buzzed. He grabbed it and saw the text from Lestrade.

_A body. Interested?_

Sherlock was copied in on it. John smirked. When had he and Sherlock become a package deal to the Yarders? The phone buzzed again as John got a copy of Sherlock's text back.

_Details, Lestrade. Is it boring?_

_Decapitation._ Lestrade sent back. There was an address attached. John put his book on the table and slid his shoes on. He didn't even need to wait for Sherlock's reply. This had to qualify for a least a nine on the weird-case-ometer. John knew the detective would—

-The door burst open down the hall and Sherlock came striding into the sitting room, changed into regular clothes and looking much more presentable. "John!" He hollered.

"I'm right here."

He saw John, standing there in his shoes and jacket, wallet being slid into a pocket. With a short nod he grabbed his coat. "Lestrade actually has something not stifling." He snipped. "I'd settle for another wife having an affair at this point. Come."

John followed him out onto the street, doing a little observing of his own. Sherlock was still tense and there was a tightness in his shoulders that was unusual. He waved down a cab, his face set in a hard, impassive mask. His mood was lifting slightly now with the case, but there was still a foulness just under the surface. John knew he'd have to tread lightly if he wanted to keep the peace between Sherlock and Lestrade's team. Hopefully Anderson was on another case, for his sake.

They got to the flats where the victim lived. Sherlock opened the cab door and swept past the crime scene tape, barely exchanging a word with Donovan. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock, as usual, hadn't offered a pence in payment. John opened his wallet, placing some cash in the cabbie's waiting hand.

The flat was nicely yet modestly furnished. There were lots of straight contemporary lines in the furniture and fixtures in shades of white and silver and grey. A sleek metal coat rack stood near the door. On it hung a hat and below it, a pair of brown shoes were neatly placed together. Sherlock paused beside it, taking in the room.

John leaned over to Sherlock. "The shoes said to the hat, 'you go on ahead, we'll follow behind on foot.' Get it? A head?"

Sherlock eyed the hat and shoes and John saw a lightning-quick flash of mirth on Sherlock's face before he slid off his gloves and stuck them in his pocket. "Yes, I get it John." He drawled. "The hat spoke? Don't be daft." He sounded condescending, but John saw the faint smile on his lips as he swept into the next room where the body was.

The scene was pretty gruesome. The man's body was front-down on the white carpet, the head lopped clean off and missing. Dark blood pooled on the floor. Sherlock squinted at the body, then crouched on the ground and stared at something on the corpse only he could see. John caught Lestrade's eye and they exchanged a nod of greeting, both knowing at this point that it was best to keep quiet when Sherlock was doing his thing.

"Anything?" Lestrade said after Sherlock had prowled around the flat.

"Business man. Early thirties. Paid well and lived comfortably but certainly not outside his means. He was having problems with his girlfriend—you might want to check her out."

"Right." Lestrade muttered. "You wouldn't happen to know her name?"

"Really Lestrade?" Sherlock glared up at the DI. When Lestrade shrugged, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Did you even _look _around this place? Melanie." He said. His eyes flicked momentarily to John and another flash of amusement crossed his face. "Headmore. Melanie Headmore. Unfortunate last name for a woman."

John snorted. "Though in this case it's more like 'Head-less.'"

Sherlock grinned and Lestrade rolled his eyes, not seeing the humor. He jotted down the name.

Sergeant Donovan came into the room. "Need any help?" She asked Lestrade.

"Why not?" John blurted, "Two heads are better than one."

Sherlock turned his face away from them to hide his smile. John grinned quickly and then cleared his throat and focused on stamping down the giggles bubbling in his chest.

Donovan stared at John for a few seconds, not thinking it was funny, before turning her attention to Lestrade.

"We're alright in here, Sally." He said. She went back outside. John was relieved when Sherlock didn't make any snarky comments about her being useless or anything of that nature.

Sherlock composed himself and turned to Lestrade. "There's no pictures of him in the flat, but he had an abnormally large nose. His chin and jaw were angular," Sherlock gestured over the ragged stump of neck. "His parietal and frontal bones would have given him a box-like face. His eyes were light blue, he most likely had freckles, given the pale pallor of the rest of his skin, and his hair was blonde," Sherlock added.

John caught his eye and said in a deadpan voice, "so you'd consider him fair and square, then?"

Sherlock made a strange snort-giggle sound and John lost it. He hung his head, snickering uncontrollably into his chest. Beside him, Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in laughter as he too lost control and gave in the horrible puns.

"Christ." Lestrade murmured. He flipped his notebook shut.

"Stop—" John wheezed to Sherlock between giggles, "we're at a crime scene. Remember, no giggling at crime scenes…" He trailed off into another fit of laughter.

"I think we're about done here, Detective Inspector." Sherlock managed in a somewhat normal voice.

"We'll _head _out now." John added. Sherlock made that weird suppressed laughing snort noise again and John lost it even harder, his eyes watering, goaded on by Sherlock laughing loudly beside him. Lestrade smiled indulgently and shook his head, leaving the room to call in the forensics team. "Children, both of you." He said.

"You sound like Mycroft." John breathed, holding his sides.

"Nah," Sherlock said, "not nearly queenly enough."

John laughed even harder if possible, glad to hear Sherlock laughing with him. It was too rare that either of them got to laugh like this. The forensics team came in and started cleaning up. Donovan and Anderson looked at John and Sherlock like they each sprouted carrots out of their ears.

"Freaks." Donovan muttered. Anderson nodded in agreement. Sherlock and John glanced at each other, grinning, neither caring about the insult.

"Alright, you two." Lestrade said in his 'police' voice. "If you're done here, out." John and Sherlock ducked out of the room, smiling widely as they strode down the hall towards the door.

That evening, John was back on the couch, finishing the last few pages of his novel. Sherlock was playing the violin at the window. John noted with satisfaction that Sherlock hadn't spent anymore time in his room since they returned from the crime scene, and that he had even given a flabbergasted Mrs. Hudson a kiss on the cheek for no apparent reason. John had also noticed that Sherlock was playing most of John's favorite songs on the violin. He settled deeper into the sofa, content. It looked like Sherlock's black mood had gone away.

End.


End file.
